


What would you ask if you had just one question?

by Justafewthingstosay



Series: Let's say the ineffable [6]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Burns, Emotional pain, Hopeful ending., Hurt/Comfort, Just a lot of angst and Pain, M/M, Physical Pain, Religion, Swearing, begging for death, “Family Issues”
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-29 01:05:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21146198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Justafewthingstosay/pseuds/Justafewthingstosay
Summary: Crowley had been waiting for this moment for centuries. It might be his final confrontation if he was lucky. But luck isn’t really a thing that demons are known for.





	What would you ask if you had just one question?

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! So this is my fic that was featured in the Ineffable Con Zine 2019!   
The Zine is absolutely beautiful and I urge you to check out the other wonderful stories that were in it! 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy

It was a Sunday, he would normally think Sundays are quite boring, but Crowley had to do something. Something he had been wanting to do for years, he had been wanting to do this for centuries. 

  
He wanted to do this since Noah and the arc, then the plague, but with the apocalypse so close, he decided that now was the time to do this. 

So he was standing in front of St Paul's cathedral. Well, he wasn’t really standing in front of it, he was sitting in SOHO Coffee Co and slowly sipping the espresso that he had bought around two hours ago. 

It had long gotten cold, but that doesn’t really matter to an occult being that could easily heat it back up with the touch of his fingers. 

He had come here a few moments before the mass had started, but then he remembered 1941 and decided that maybe going into a holy place during mass would be a little too much for his corporeal form to handle. So he was people watching. 

Due to it being a Sunday there were mostly tourists or religious folk around St.Pauls. He watched in delight how people tried to take pictures in front of it, just to have people walk in between them and the cameraman. And if they managed to take a good one, Crowley took great delight in fucking them up through bad lighting. 

The meanest thing that he did on that day, was when a group of very religious folk passed and tried to take a group picture and he just subtly scared one of the pigeons that were sitting in a big group. In seconds, the entire group of pigeons took off and flew right into the group of missionaries. 

Serves them right, he thought. He had seen this group before, running around spewing hate against everyone that wasn’t perfectly in the norm. So if one of them got pooped on by pigeons, he counted it as a win. 

Mass ended and Crowley was still sitting in the small café, staring at the people leaving the church, he decided to let his aura reach out, to feel the attendees feelings. 

Some were happy, mostly older folk or married couples, but some of the auras felt deeply disturbed, troubled even. Some were scared, walking with their happy family members. 

Some felt like they were a disappointment, that they didn’t belong. And when those feelings hit just a little close to home, Crowley stopped, ordering another espresso, to try to get his mind off of it. 

Crowley waited the entire day in that small café, it wasn't like he had anything else to do. The angel was busy with the shop, and there wasn’t really anyone else that Crowley liked to spend his time with. 

So he waited and he watched people come and go. At some point the café closed, so he sat down on one of the benches outside, occupying his hands and his brain with playing some games on his smartphone. 

It was around 9 pm when the last people left St. Pauls. It was cleaning personnel, two men and a woman who were laughing amongst each other. He waited until they were out of eyeshot and walked up to the heavy wooden doors of the church, opening them with a snap of his fingers. 

He knew the pain that he was going to subdue himself to, but it was worth it. That was at least what he tried to tell himself. 

Hopping from one foot to another, he made his way into the church. This was the second time he had actually seen a church from the inside, and he had to admit to himself that it was quite beautiful. 

“If they’d ever seen a real cherub, they wouldn’t be doing that,” he mumbled, staring at one of the small statues of winged babies. 

He looked at the intricate paintings on the ceiling, the amount of beauty that a place so full of pain could hold astounded him. 

But he wasn’t here to look at art. No. He was here for something way more important. 

He reached the altar and planted his feet firmly on the ground while trailing his eyes to the ceiling. 

The pain in his feet got to almost an unbearable point, burning the soles of his feet. But he couldn’t make himself care.

He had been burning ever since the fall, what problem could a little more fire be? 

“Are you there?” He yelled, hearing his own voice echo in the empty cathedral. “I have some things to tell you!” 

He lifted his hands from the altar and started pacing, mostly because it helped him gather his thoughts, but the relief he felt on his feet was also a plus. 

  
“Is this really the way?” he questioned. “I know you said you would be testing them.” 

He listened, hoping that there would be some kind of answer, but there were only the tapping of his feet on the hard tiles. The rest of the church was quiet.

  
“But how can you watch them destroy each other over religious ideals that YOU put into their brains? How are you fine with hurting them so much! Aren’t they your children? Your creation?” 

His voice was an ever-building crescendo, speaking himself into a frenzy, while the holiness burned his feet. 

  
“WAS I NOT YOUR CHILD ONCE?” He exclaimed, picking up a golden chalice and throwing it. The chalice was made out of actual metal, so it shouldn’t have shattered, but Crowley expected it to. So it did. 

But before he could take a look at the destruction he had caused, the chalice was back on the altar, standing where it had been before he had thrown it. 

If someone would have been there to look into Crowley’s eyes, they would have not been able to spot a single sliver of white, his eyes completely golden. 

The small slits in his eyes focused on the chalice. “So you’re listening?” He turned where he was standing, the flesh on his feet starting to boil. “Can you just answer me one question? One small question?” 

The Cathedral was quiet, but the silence was enough of an answer for Crowley. 

“Why are you doing this?” Crowley begged. “If you want to know if Heaven or Hell was stronger, why create the humans? Why put them through all of this?” Crowley inquired. He had stopped his pacing, his feet firmly planted on the ground. 

The church was once more, quiet. The demon felt his breathing started to quicken before he screamed. 

“ANSWER ME!” He dropped to his knees, his feet unable to support his weight anymore. “ANSWER ME FOR FUCKS SAKE! JUST ONCE!” 

The golden eyes of the demon started to fill with tears, not only from the pain of the ground but mostly because of the pain of being ignored, forgotten, mocked. 

As his tears streaked his face, the demon actually managed to laugh, it was only a small huffed laugh, but it was there. 

“You know, I always asked myself why you let me fall-” He moved his hand up to his mouth and bit into one of his knuckles, a small smile forming around it. “-But I know now.” 

He let his head fall back, staring at the paintings of angels, looking so happy, so soft, so friendly. Everything that real angels weren’t, except one.    
  
“You let me fall because you’re a fucking coward.” He grinned out, licking his teeth with his serpentine tongue. “I was the only one who called you out on your fucking bullshit. On your cruelty. 

“I was the only one, who actually loved the humans, your creation, and what did that get me? SIX THOUSAND YEARS AS A DEMON!” 

  
The holy flames were licking up his thighs now, burning flesh, but he didn’t care. She had made him go through worse. 

“SIX THOUSAND YEARS OF YEARNING, OF LONELINESS!" 

He took a deep breath and snarled: "SIX THOUSAND YEARS OF HATING MYSELF SO MUCH BECAUSE I THOUGHT IT WAS MY FAULT!" 

He pushed his hands through his hair, trying to calm his trembling. At this moment, he could smell his flesh starting to burn. The smoke moving upwards, past his hair, flying out of the church in an attempted escape. An escape from the holiness burning it. An Espace the demon was refusing to make. 

  
Shortly after that, he lost all feeling in his legs, an obvious sign that he needed to leave right now if he wanted to stay alive, but all he could do about it was laugh. “Why don’t you just kill me? Why don’t you smite me right now, if you hate me so fucking much!” he belted. 

  
“STOP BEING A COWARD AND DO IT! SMITE ME!” 

When nothing happened, his lips started to tremble. “You never cared about what I wanted anyway,” he breathed out. 

His entire body started to shiver, his vision blurring and before he could do anything, he fell to the side before rolling onto his back, his breathing getting slower and with a last shuddering breath, he let his eyes focus on the image of Jesus on the cross directly above him. 

  
And then it all faded to black. 

  
  


\-------

  
  
  


The first thing he felt when he woke up, was pain. Searing pain that spread over his entire back, his feet and his shoulders. 

He tried to turn around, but he winced loudly as his shirt graced his back. 

“You shouldn’t move, my dear. I don’t want you to hurt yourself,” A voice came from behind him, a soft hand touching his shoulder, keeping him in place. 

The angel’s voice carried a sadness that Crowley couldn’t place. Crowley felt his shirt be miracled away as the air hit his burnt skin. He heard the angel suck in a breath, he didn’t know how bad it was, and honestly, he didn’t want to know.    
  
“Angel, it’s fine-” He tried but Aziraphale let the cold water drip onto the wound, making the demon wince in pain.

  
“It is not fine, Crowley!” Aziraphale said just a little too loudly, his voice trembling as he let himself fall onto the chair next to the couch. “Let me just, let me just please help.” His hands stayed over the demon, not touching, not daring to. 

  
“I’m not going to ask what you were doing in St. Paul’s Cathedral, burning your entire being with the divine holiness. But please, please just tell me that you won’t do it again.” He felt a few water droplets hit his back, but the Angel didn’t move. 

Crowley didn’t reply, and Aziraphale let the washcloth carefully fall onto the demon's back. 

There was a silence for a few seconds until he suddenly heard Aziraphale’s breath hitch. 

Even if the pain on his back would have killed him when he did, he turned to see Aziraphale sit there, his head in his hands, softly sobbing into his hands. 

Crowley tentatively reached out to touch the angel's shoulder, drawing him in. “I won’t ever leave you, Angel. Never.” 

The Angel looked up from his hands, his blue eyes filled with tears. “Promise?” 

The Demon smiled at the Angel. “Promise.”

He let go after that, laying back down so that the Angel could continue to clean his wounds, putting cold water on the burns to soothe them. 

And through the soft touches, Crowley smiled into the couch, even through the pain, because the Angel cared. He really cared. 

But then out of nowhere, he felt a presence in his mind and with the presence, there was a sudden voice. it was almost a whisper, just loud enough for him to hear. 

“See, Crowley, I don’t need to smite you. You’re already smitten.” 


End file.
